


Souls Enchanted

by Zinneth (Zoya_Zalan)



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bonding, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Misunderstandings, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-24
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-04-23 03:19:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4861052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoya_Zalan/pseuds/Zinneth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ilúvatar grants each of his Firstborn children but one <i>uireveleth</i> — one eternal love. Such an elusive and precious gift is often difficult to find… even when it is placed right before one’s eyes.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <br/>
    <img/>
  </p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	1. Oropherion

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer** : J.R.R. Tolkien et al own all things related to the wonderful characters and lands of Middle Earth; I’m just borrowing. No copyright infringement is intended. I do, however, take credit for and ownership of all original characters presented within. Respect for my creative endeavors is appreciated.
> 
> **Author’s Note** : This story will definitely be canon-divergent in some pretty spectacular ways. I’m setting the rating at M/Explicit from the beginning as a warning to readers that there will be mature content in later chapters. I welcome any comments, corrections, and constructive criticism with open arms.
> 
> **Acknowledgements** : I had a lot of help while struggling to get this story off the ground, for which I am very grateful. Many, many thanks go to Carol, Ignoblebard, Nuinzilien, and Katbear for their insightful comments and suggestions. Thanks also to Elensari for the early suggestions and pre-read, and to the gracious translator over at The One Ring forums for assistance with Sindarin sentences. All mistakes in the final draft are mine alone.

**T.A. 2710**

The large fountain hidden away in the depths of Imladris’s famed gardens was a marvel of glorious tiers and spillways. Several swans had stopped to bathe in its sparkling depths, paying absolutely no mind to the elf who beheld them with a wan smile. Elrond Peredhel’s face was a study in quiet melancholy as he remembered how his wife Celebrían had loved this place so. How many times he had found her here, listening to the peaceful song of the waters at all times of day and night...

Elrond closed his eyes against a wash of sorrow. It was the two-hundredth anniversary of her sailing to the Undying Lands, yet he felt her loss as acutely as if it had been yesterday. While their marriage had been primarily political, he’d grown to love her all the same. He missed her; he missed their camaraderie and the closeness of the family they’d created together. Now, in the wake of her departure and the horrible events that had led to her decision to leave, their sons swept through Arda’s lands on a single-minded mission filled with bitterness and destruction, and their daughter still mourned in the Golden Wood with her grandparents, leaving Elrond very much alone.

A swallow landed nearby on one of the garden’s many well manicured hedges and began to sing, its head cocked in Elrond’s direction. He opened his eyes to glance at his tiny guest, the cheerful chirping bringing a genuine smile to his face. “Perhaps I am not so alone after all,” he offered, chuckling as the bird ruffled its feathers and then sped away towards the fountain.

Sighing, Elrond took note of Anor’s position in the sky. It was late afternoon already. Imladris was welcoming a diplomatic party from Mirkwood on this day. More than three centuries had passed since he and the Elven-King had last met to renegotiate the long-standing treaty between their kingdoms, and even though Thranduil’s disdainful temperament tended to test his own patience, Elrond understood this periodic congress between them was a necessary evil. It would no doubt be a trial filled with endless bickering over inconsequential treaty details, as it always was, but in the end, the continued peace and cooperation between their realms was a priceless advantage.

The colorful blare of trumpets resounded through the valley then, pulling Elrond out of his thoughts. Even from this distance, he could hear the muffled avalanche of hoof-falls as a group of Imladris’s own elite sentinels were dispatched to greet and escort the royal entourage across the final length of their journey. His insides fluttered a bit at the sound, despite all his millennia of political experience. He and the Elven-King did not share the same rapport that made interactions between Imladris and other realms much easier and, in some cases, largely pleasant. This welcome would not be warm and lively; rather, it would be formally polite. And cautious. With one last lingering look at the cascading water before him, Elrond turned and made his way out of the lush gardens.

Upon reaching the reception area, he found a full honor guard already in place, lining the sides of the grand staircase and courtyard just inside the main gate, the blaze of Anor’s waning light gleaming brightly on their flawless elven plate and leaf-bladed spears. Each stood perfectly motionless, proud, majestic statues on display. Elrond’s entourage awaited his presence at the top of the stairs, advisors and nobles draped in their own finery. He scanned the waiting assembly, trying to gauge the overall mood. Saelbeth gazed out over the city, not a single care marring his expression. The counsellor’s treasured wisdom always grounded Elrond, and his seemingly limitless patience even more so. Poor Lindir’s left leg bounced nervously beneath his robes, so easily intimidated he was by everyone and everything. Elrond briefly wondered if he would need to resuscitate the young minstrel should the imposing Elven-King deign to glance in his direction. And then there was Glorfindel…

The trusted Captain of Imladris’s Guard was standing on the top step, fussing angrily with the sleeves of his brilliant indigo surcoat. Elrond grinned at the sight, taking one last look around before coming to a stop beside the tall blond warrior. “Glorfindel,” he acknowledged.

Glorfindel stopped what he was doing long enough to glare darkly at him. “Elrond.”

“Where is Erestor?”

“Sharpening his teeth, no doubt.”

Elrond cocked an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t he be sharpening his tongue?”

“Oh, that is already quite sharp, thank you.”

“Practiced on you, did he?” Elrond asked, stifling a chuckle.

Glorfindel snorted. “Apparently I looked at him the wrong way.”

“Yes, well… we’re all a bit on edge, I think.”

Glorfindel gave up tidying his dress clothes. “Must we go through this again so soon? Thranduil is the most insufferable Sinda ever to set foot in these lands.”

Elrond inhaled deeply, his brow furrowing. “The Lady of the Golden Wood has insisted we convene as soon as possible, though her reasons for such remain... shrouded.”

“If she is so worried about the Eldar maintaining peaceful relations, why does _she_ not come and deal with him?” Glorfindel spat.

Tilting his head thoughtfully, Elrond studied his friend. The warrior was, under normal circumstances, a most gracious member of any welcoming party, his charm and warmth easily negating any uncertainty caused by his daunting stature. It was only while in the vicinity of the Elven-King — or at the mere mention of his name — that Glorfindel appeared to grow fangs.

“You truly detest him so?”

“And you do not?” Glorfindel countered, both of his brows arched in question. “I am always shocked he does not simply dismount that ridiculous elk of his, drop his hose, and bend over, demanding we all kiss his arse.”

The outlandish visual forced a quiet hiss of laughter past Elrond’s lips, even as he shook his head. “My goodness, such animosity.”

“I’m entitled.” Glorfindel’s expression softened then, his deep blue eyes patient yet penetrating. “And how do you fare this day, meldir?”

Elrond paused, unconsciously glancing away. He knew full well the question had nothing to do with the impending diplomatic arrival. A few heartbeats later, he met the warrior’s gaze again. “I am well, Fin, thank you. Your kindness is much appreciated.”

“I worry for you.”

Offering a gentle smile, Elrond said, “There is no need.”

Glorfindel watched him intently. “It is my honor as your friend to do so.”

The trumpeters sounded their instruments again, heralding the Mirkwood party’s arrival within visual range of the city. Elrond grinned once more as the warrior’s expression darkened at the interruption. Glorfindel’s gaze shot to the musicians, perched high in a balcony far behind them. “Sauron’s spawn be damned, that is much too spirited a tune!” he spat. “The next time we should be forced to greet him, I’ll order a dirge to be played.”

“That,” Elrond noted whimsically, “would be a most interesting reception.”

Glorfindel’s eyes sparkled with the same humor. “One far more appropriate, yes?” 

“I find it endearingly amusing how much you dislike Thranduil. He brings out the best in you, Fin.”

The warrior tossed him a bold look. “Brings out the best in _me_?” His gaze slid along Elrond’s raiment. “I’ve not seen you bedecked in such noble hues in, oh, nigh three-hundred years, my friend.”

Elrond glanced down, self-consciously smoothing the exquisite material of his surcoat, which reminded him of the color of amethysts once mined in Menegroth. Twining over the fabric were vines of deep pewter that very nearly matched the shade of his own eyes, and his silver over-robe lay in resplendent folds of pure silk all the way to the ground. For one who usually dressed in understated colors that gave little indication of his status, he did indeed look quite regal. “What, this old thing?” he asked innocently. “It’s been gathering dust in my wardrobe far too long. I’m simply airing it out.”

Glorfindel grinned wickedly. “How convenient. One might suggest the Lord of Imladris secretly develops a certain competitiveness while in the presence of Mirkwood’s king.”

“Mmm,” Elrond played along, enjoying their repartee immensely. “One might also suggest my Captain’s animosity is in fact a ruse meant to conceal far deeper emotions. Lust, perhaps? Thranduil is rather comely.”

Eyes widening in shock, Glorfindel quietly hissed, “Utterly preposterous!”

Elrond chuckled soundlessly, his gaze drifting towards the main gate, beyond which the delegation and their escort could clearly be seen pressing forward towards journey’s end. “And away we go,” he announced loudly, tossing one last amused glance at Glorfindel before beginning his descent.

The rest of Elrond’s retinue fell into step behind him, fanning out once they reached the bottom of the staircase. The Lord himself continued forward until he stood upon the intricate star of dark gray and dusky cobblestones at the center of the courtyard that marked the entrance to the secluded haven. There he waited, trying to maintain a relaxed and welcoming stance while painful knots of nervous energy cramped limbs and digits. Truth be told, Elrond loathed dealing with the arrogant Sinda, whose presence always cast a shroud of oppressive tension throughout his beloved Imladris. The next fortnight or two would be difficult, indeed.

The thundering echo of hoof-falls assaulted Elrond’s ears as the arriving party cleared the gate, the cushion of the earthen path beyond no longer muffling the sound. The Elven-King led the procession astride a magnificent white stallion. Unlike the rest of his party, who slowed their mounts to a brisk cooling walk along the outer edges of the large courtyard, Thranduil pressed forward, trotting his steed in a loose circle around Imladris’s Lord before coming to a stop directly in front of him.

Thranduil hadn’t changed at all, of course. His piercing blue eyes were as shrewd as ever, slicing straight to the core of any who beheld him. Long, flowing strands of the purest gold framed a handsome face whose countenance was ever molded into one of pretentious apathy. The Sinda towered over most, his height on par with that of Glorfindel, and he used it to full advantage. Intimidation was one of Thranduil’s most effective tactics. Fortunately, it was one to which Elrond did not easily succumb. He met the other’s penetrating gaze calmly, waiting until the Lord of the Woodland realm finally dismounted and approached, the stink of horses, wet leather, and long days spent on the road surrounding him like a cloak.

" _Nathlo na Imladris, Thranduil Oropherion_ ," Elrond offered as he bowed his head, his right hand touching the place above his heart in the traditional Elvish greeting.

Thranduil acknowledged him with a simple, “Elrond,” while he loosened and removed his gloves with unhurried care, one finger at a time.

A tendril of annoyance wove its way through Elrond’s resolve, even though he’d expected this kind of cool indifference from the Elven-King. Regardless, his duty as host compelled him to finish this welcome with a respectful, “We are honored by your presence, as always.”

It looked as though Thranduil had been about to respond when his eyes suddenly narrowed, his gaze tracking movement somewhere behind Elrond. For his part, Elrond didn’t even need to turn around to know who was approaching. Glorfindel’s bright attire slid into his peripheral vision a few moments later as the warrior came to a stop beside him. Inhaling deeply, Elrond braced himself for the inevitable posturing.

“Ah, Glorfindel of Gondolin,” the Elven-King stated, his displeasure readily apparent.

“That’s Glorfindel of _Imladris_ , thank you.”

Thranduil cocked a brow. “Might this be the new and improved version?”

Glorfindel accepted the barb with a smile... one that contained no warmth at all. “Naturally. That’s a rather interesting excuse for an elk, _Your Majesty_ ,” he noted, a fair amount of sarcasm coloring the honorific. “Pray tell, where is the beast?”

Two sets of crystalline blue eyes trained on each other, the coldest of cold fire igniting in their depths. And then Thranduil answered, his voice low and laced with venom. “Dead.”

A hushed silence descended upon the courtyard as the two blond warriors continued their stare-down. The Mirkwood company reined in their horses, though they remained mounted. Everyone seemed to pause expectantly; even the small group of servants and equerries dispatched to assist the visitors slowed to a standstill on the grand staircase. Noting the taunting smirk that tugged at Glorfindel’s lips, Elrond suddenly realized just how volatile the situation was. Given the mercurial temperament of the Woodland elves, this confrontation could prove a disastrous precursor to the deliberations at hand. The tension needed to be defused. Quickly.

“Our sincerest condolences, Your Majesty,” Elrond offered, taking care to infuse Thranduil’s title with all the respect deserved of his station. “May your noble companion rest in peace.”

Thranduil’s gaze slid back to him, now cold, hard, and very accusing, though he remained silent. Unwilling to draw out this rather inauspicious reception any further, Elrond glanced towards the servants, gesturing for them to attend their tasks. It was the signal all appeared to have been waiting for. As one, the delegation dismounted, relinquishing their steeds to the equerries while servants unloaded their packs and guided the Mirkwood warriors towards the special barracks reserved for visiting guard members.

Still feeling the weight of the Elven-King’s stare, Elrond allowed his own gaze to roam the courtyard a few moments longer. Thranduil’s small diplomatic corps stood about awkwardly, eyeing their Imladrian counterparts with a certain amount of disdain, even as they offered polite murmurs of greeting. Formal introductions would take place later, of course, but almost all of those present were already known to Elrond and his counsellors, including one of Thranduil’s own sons. The sole exception was a blond Elda on the far side of the courtyard who was trying in vain to settle his horse. _Another son_? Elrond pondered, though that was nearly assured. The only golden-haired residents of Mirkwood were those of Thranduil’s ancestry — royal blood.

Unable to see the newcomer’s face from his vantage point, Elrond observed the scene with a touch of curiosity. The ellon’s beautiful dapple grey mare was rather agitated, stomping nervously with ears flattened and nostrils flared at the unlucky groom who currently held her reins. Her owner smoothed his hands along her neck, whispering soothing words, but they appeared to do little to calm the steed. When the groom tried to lead the mare along, she reared, raising such a fuss that the blond ellon finally retook the reins and began leading her away towards the stables himself. Elrond watched them go, wondering whether the presence of another royal member boded well for this congress. That would give the Mirkwood delegation an extra voice of dissention in what was already gearing up to be an epic political showdown.

Elrond turned towards his Captain. “Will you please show our guests to their quarters, Lord Glorfindel?” He sincerely hoped his friend would recognize the use of his title as the gentle warning to behave that it was. “I will see the King to his chambers myself.”

“Of course, my Lord,” Glorfindel responded, inclining his head respectfully. Elrond didn’t miss the defiant twinkle in those blue eyes, though. The discordant air that lay between his steadfast Captain and the Elven-King was far from settled.

The remaining individuals dispersed quickly, leaving the courtyard empty save for the two esteemed leaders. Elrond now had no choice but to face Thranduil’s harsh scrutiny, which had not wavered in the slightest while he’d been focused elsewhere. “Please allow me to apologize for—”

“Why are we here?” Thranduil interrupted coolly.

The mild annoyance Elrond had felt thus far began to bloom into genuine indignation. “I presume your question is not meant to impugn my courtesy?” he asked, resisting the urge to take the Elven-King to task for his impertinence.

Thranduil’s expression morphed, openly displaying how ridiculous he found Elrond’s question to be. “Our treaty was not due to be reviewed for another two centuries at the very least, so I ask again: why are we here?”

Elrond paused before answering, both to subdue his irritation and gather his thoughts. “Lady Galadriel was most insistent that this assembly convene without further ado. Beyond that, I know not why.”

The Elven-King’s jaw tightened. “I rightly suspected the influence of that Noldo witch.”

“Come now, Thranduil. You know as well as I that her requests are never to be taken lightly. They are usually laden with portents, and to ignore such only invites uncertainty and peril.”

Thranduil’s gaze slid to the buildings behind him, and for a moment Elrond thought he saw a flicker of recognition there, elusive and very, very guarded. Before he could even speculate on what that might mean, Thranduil spoke, “If there is greater purpose to this congress, why does she not speak plainly?”

“That is not for me to say,” Elrond responded, turning towards the grand staircase and gesturing for the Elven-King to join him. “The nature of our Lady’s mirror often precludes any measure of clarity.”

Thranduil snorted arrogantly as he fell into step beside him. “She is _not_ my Lady.”

The firm admission nearly caused Elrond to chuckle despite his darkened mood. There had never been any love lost between the Elven-King and the Lady of Lothlórien, with their wildly different personalities and ideologies. They held a grudging respect for one another on the most fundamental of levels, yes, but nothing past that. If Thranduil only knew of the colorful descriptors Galadriel often used when referring to him...

The rest of their walk to the Last Homely House was spent in relative silence save for several futile attempts on Elrond’s part to engage Thranduil in pleasant conversation. He shouldn’t have wasted his breath, he realized a bit too late. Neither was entirely agreeable to the circumstances, but there was simply no way to avoid the discomfort of these meetings. The Woodland elves tended to keep to themselves, sheltered even from those of their own kind. They were a wary lot with fickle dispositions, and the only way to successfully deal with them was through patience and tolerance. Elrond only hoped he and his counsellors somehow acquired an abundance of both before discussions began two days hence.

_I must make certain the Miruvor flows freely this evening_ , he thought as they finally reached their destination. That, at least, might be a good way to start.

The magnificent Homely House was both a marvel of architecture and a haven for travelers of all races who happened to find themselves passing through the Valley of Imladris. Exquisite columns of polished marble braced three storeys, both inside and out. Every detail, from the rich tapestries and intricate latticework of precious metal that decorated the interior walls to the delicate aromas of incense and flowers that drifted through the cavernous atrium, was meant to soothe the senses of wearied guests. It was a place of comfort, contemplation, and merriment, the beauty of which usually left visitors in awe.

The majesty of it all was entirely lost on Thranduil, of course. He kept his gaze narrowly focused on the staircase to which they were headed, largely ignoring the respectful bows and quiet welcomes offered by passersby. Elrond bit his tongue. The Elven-King’s behavior was worse than that of previous meetings, aided no doubt by Glorfindel’s well aimed verbal artillery.

The tense silence hung between them all the way to the third floor, where Elrond halted before a set of finely carved wooden doors. Pushing them open, he gestured for Thranduil to enter. “A feast in your honor will be served in roughly a candlemark. I do believe pheasant is on the menu.”

Thranduil didn’t seem the least bit interested in his words, or the fact that great lengths had most likely been taken to procure the rare game bird. He merely continued gazing about the guest suite with a critical eye.

At a loss, Elrond made one last effort to salvage what remained of this diplomatic welcome. “Thranduil?” he asked, waiting patiently until the Sinda had finished his assessment of his chambers. When the Elven-King finally turned to face him, he continued, “It is my sincerest hope that you feel comfortable here in my home. You need only ring for a servant if there is anything you desire.”

Thranduil took a step closer, his gaze unrelenting. “Understood,” he clipped, grasping both doors and pushing them closed.

Elrond was left staring at the tangled weave of leaves and branches carved into the darkly stained wood before him. He sighed heavily, already formulating a scathing message for the Lady of the Golden Wood. Kind words, stately rooms, the promise of a grand feast... there was simply no satisfying Thranduil, and that was unlikely to change anytime soon. Slapping one of his hands lightly against his thigh, Elrond quietly murmured to himself, “Perhaps I should have offered to kiss his arse...”

Snorting at his own cheekiness, he turned and made his way towards the other side of the Homely House. He said a silent prayer to Manwë as he went, asking for the swift resolution of all treaty details in the days to come. Such a fortunate occurrence really would be in everyone’s best interest.

**♦ ~ ♦ ~ ♦**


	2. Thranduilion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer** : J.R.R. Tolkien et al own all things related to the wonderful characters and lands of Middle Earth; I’m just borrowing. No copyright infringement is intended. I do, however, take credit for and ownership of all original characters presented within. Respect for my creative endeavors is appreciated.
> 
> **Author’s Note** : It was never my intention to take so long in getting chapter two written and posted. *cringe* I and my Muse got thrown off-course in some pretty drastic ways. It doesn’t help that I write about as quickly as a glacier moves. Many, many apologies for the ridiculous delay. I do hope this was worth waiting for.
> 
> **Acknowledgements** : Many thanks to my awesome betae, Carol and Ignoblebard, for their insightful comments and suggestions. Any mistakes in the final draft are mine alone.

~ * ~ * ~

“That reception went rather well, don’t you think?”

Elrond tossed Glorfindel a withering glance as they finished descending one of the Homely House’s many staircases and continued across the atrium. “I should assign you to library duty for the next fortnight.”

“And miss all the fun?” the warrior complained half-heartedly.

“It could take days to smooth Thranduil’s ruffled feathers,” Elrond said, “and the lot of us will surely suffer for it.”

“We will all suffer regardless, meldir. His very presence is a bane for all of Imladris.”

Elrond came to a halt outside the doors to the Feasting Hall, eyeing the Captain of his Guard sternly. “That is no excuse for impropriety during a diplomatic greeting. I expected better.”

Glorfindel had the good grace to look suitably chastised. His gaze slid to the floor, lips drawn into a tight line. “I do beg your pardon, my lord,” he murmured.

Until now, Elrond had looked upon this seemingly baseless feud between Glorfindel and Thranduil with nothing but amusement. However, if things progressed any further than the mild posturing usually present when dealing with the Woodland elves, he would not hesitate to issue orders limiting contact between the two of them. The successful outcome of this congress was paramount.

Blue eyes risked a wary glance at him, and Elrond suddenly realized the silence between them had grown awkward. Despite his annoyance, he felt a tendril of contrition weave through his heart. Glorfindel had been a steadfast presence in his and his family’s life for more than an Age, and he considered the warrior a dear friend. He’d made his point; there was no reason to linger on the subject. Besides, he knew Glorfindel wouldn’t be the only one trading barbs with the Mirkwood delegation. Diplomatic negotiations always involved a carefully orchestrated dance of swipes and parries. With Thranduil and his emissaries, such a dance was merely performed on a bed of caltrops, making things all the more interesting.

Elrond softened his expression, deciding it was time to let his friend off the hook. “Honestly, Glorfindel,” he said, unable to resist teasing the warrior once more. “Why do the two of you not simply kiss and get it over with?”

Glorfindel’s eyes widened. “Bah!” he exclaimed, opening one of the doors for his lord. A grin curled the edges of Elrond’s lips as he moved past, the jovial atmosphere of the evening meal welcoming him.

The level of laughter in the Feasting Hall made Elrond’s smile widen. One of Imladris’s long-range scouting parties had returned safely after spending several months tracking the movement of yrch in the Trollshaws. Having already received their report, he’d dismissed them with orders to relax and enjoy themselves for the next sennight — something they had clearly taken to heart. Elrond gestured silently to one of the stewards in attendance, and within moments a long-standing tradition was fulfilled: five bottles of Imladris’s finest wine were delivered to the warriors’ table, compliments of their lord for a deed well done.

Elrond and Glorfindel crossed the length of the room amid the lively cheers, their smiles a distinct contrast to the deep-set scowl worn by the person who awaited them at the lord’s table. The tall elf stood rigidly, his dark gaze fixed on the Feasting Hall’s entrance. It looked as though he expected the ghost of Sauron himself to appear in the doorway.

“Erestor,” Elrond greeted as he approached the one who served as his Seneschal and Chief Advisor. “Your presence was missed this afternoon.” The statement was both an affirmation and a reprimand, softened only slightly by the lord’s placid tone. In truth, he knew Erestor would not have been absent from the diplomatic welcome without good cause, but it behooved him to keep the stern counsellor on his toes.

“There was an... _issue_... concerning accommodations for our guests,” Erestor clipped.

“Ah,” Elrond noted, stopping short as he considered the first stray thought that crossed his mind. He glanced at Erestor again, eyebrows furrowing. “You haven’t loosed any pit vipers in their chambers, have you?” he asked quietly.

Slowly, Erestor’s brows rose, his gaze finally shifting to meet Elrond’s. “I’m rather upset I did not think of that first.”

Elrond playfully shook his finger at the advisor while, behind them, Glorfindel’s deep laughter blended with the rest of the merriment that filled the air. Saelbeth quietly appeared then, offering a polite greeting. His presence completed the quorum of Imladris’s diplomatic corps. Together, they had weathered the painful negotiations with Mirkwood three times before, twice in the Woodland Realm. They were quite familiar with Thranduil’s advisors, as well as their tactics, though that did little to make interactions easier — especially in the social arena, where proper etiquette required them to be cordial hosts. Elrond much preferred the conference table to a dining table when dealing with the Elven-King, a sentiment he knew was shared by the rest of his counsellors.

At last, the doors to the Feasting Hall were pulled open by unseen servants, and the Mirkwood delegation entered, led by the steward who had been assigned as their aide. Much to Elrond’s surprise, the entire complement of dining elves stopped what they were doing and stood, hands raised to their hearts, acknowledging Thranduil and his company with the highest form of recognition that could be bestowed upon visiting dignitaries. Normally, such an action was warranted only if Elrond formally introduced someone of great importance to his people, as he had planned to do that very evening. That Imladris’s citizens had done so without the need of such an introduction told their lord someone else’s influence was definitely at work.

A quick glance in Erestor’s direction deflated that particular possibility; the advisor was looking around the hall with obvious distaste, and Saelbeth appeared rather surprised as well. Elrond’s gaze shifted once more... and found Glorfindel watching him with a soft smile and a knowing twinkle in his eyes. Atonement for misdeeds, offered to his lord and to the Elven-King all in one swift but gracious gesture. He should never have doubted his good captain’s integrity. Reaching over, he squeezed Glorfindel’s shoulder, whispering, “You are forgiven.”

Shifting his attention back to the approaching delegation, Elrond was pleased to note that Thranduil’s usual mask of indifference had been replaced by an expression of surprised approval. The Elven-King’s keen gaze swept across the room until finally meeting and holding his own. Almost immediately, a touch of cool disinterest returned to those brilliant blue eyes, causing Elrond to sigh quietly. Nothing would ever be easy with Thranduil. Not even praise.

Stepping forward, Elrond addressed the entire room. “Ladies and gentle elves, please welcome His Majesty, King Thranduil Oropherion of Mirkwood and his esteemed emissaries.”

As one, the diners bowed and then burst into applause, several cheers erupting from those already deep into their cups. Elrond grinned at the ruckus. It somehow seemed rather appropriate that the more well-lubricated residents of Imladris should offer the most felicitous of welcomes to this particular guest. For a moment, Elrond considered following their lead. Imbibing excessive spirits would hardly render him — or any other elf — incapacitated, but it might help to relax his frayed nerves a bit. It might also give the wrong impression to their visitors, though, which is why he dismissed the thought as quickly as it appeared. He would simply endure this with as much patience and tact as possible.

Thranduil acknowledged Elrond with an almost dismissive gesture. “On behalf of myself and my ministers, I thank you for your hospitality. Please, as you were,” he finished, offering the rest of the room a respectful nod.

Elrond turned back to the Elven-King and his party as the Feasting Hall once more filled with lively chatter. The Mirkwood dignitaries were all dressed in their finest regalia, the soft scents of bath oils and salts clinging to them. Thranduil in particular was the picture of noble elegance, the silver silk brocade of his robes highlighting the color of his eyes and the lush vines woven into his thorny crown. He really was quite comely. Resisting the urge to toss a teasing glance in Glorfindel’s direction, Elrond spoke to his visitors.

“Allow me to introduce my cabinet, Your Majesty. This is my Chief Advisor, Lord Erestor,” he gestured towards the austere counsellor. Erestor’s only reaction was to raise his hand — quite reluctantly, it seemed — to his heart and continue to glare. Noting the venomous look, Elrond moved on quickly. “This is Saelbeth, another of my respected counsellors, and this,” he said, “is the Captain of my Guard, Lord Glorfindel.”

A few moments of charged silence followed while Thranduil and Glorfindel traded visual insults. Then, much to Elrond’s surprise, Glorfindel ceded, offering the Elven-King a courteous bow. It was all Elrond could do to rein in the grin that tickled the corners of his lips. This would be wonderful fodder for his and Glorfindel’s nightly round of spirits in front of the fireplace in his study. He only hoped the mighty warrior’s sense of humor could handle all the good-natured pestering he had in store.

Thranduil smirked rather imperiously at the presumed victory, finally bringing his focus back to Imladris’s lord. “My own Chief Advisor, Ringvith,” he introduced the elf to his right. Ringvith was dressed in black robes, his dark hair and eyes a perfect match for Erestor’s. The eerie similarities didn’t stop there. They both sported hawkish noses, unusually pale skin and thin lips, quietly vicious dispositions, and unyielding natures. If Elrond hadn’t known for certain one was Noldo and the other Silvan, he would have easily marked them as close relatives.

“My Second Advisor, Brégur,” Thranduil continued. The counsellor that acknowledged Elrond met his gaze unflinchingly. Brégur’s wild green eyes offered a silent challenge, even as he politely bowed his head. This one was unpredictable, given to explosive fits of temper when provoked. _Must be the red hair_ , Elrond had thought on more than one occasion. It seemed an apt metaphor.

The Elven-King gestured to the tall elf at his left. “My son, Taros — also the Captain of Mirkwood’s Guard.”

“Prince Taros,” Elrond greeted. Thranduil’s middle son could have passed as the Elven-King’s twin were it not for the silver hair that hung in intricate braids. He had Thranduil’s sharp, angular features, penetrating eyes, and intimidating height, but the hair was definitely a gift from his late mother, as was his paler complexion.

“And this,” Thranduil finished, urging the last of his party out from behind the two counsellors, “is my son, Legolas.”

The elf that stepped forward was unlike anything Elrond might have expected of Thranduil’s progeny. Legolas had his father’s golden locks, but his eyes were a lighter shade of blue, and he was shorter, more slender. His brows were an elegant sweep of color, so different than the bold statements of his father and brother, and when he smiled — which he did, most genuinely — the whole room seemed to brighten.

“ _Suilad, i vrannon nín_ ,” Legolas offered, bowing.

Elrond stared, fascinated. The prince’s expression was entirely without guile, his actions nothing but deeply respectful. He would have thought it an act, a means of throwing the Imladris diplomats off-guard, had he not caught a glimpse of Taros rolling his eyes in pure sibling annoyance. What a breath of fresh air this young elf was, infusing a healthy dose of integrity into a situation inherently layered with duplicity and mistrust.

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Prince Legolas. Welcome to Imladris.”

Legolas’s smile widened. “Thank you, my lord. Your valley is very beautiful.”

Ringvith cleared his throat loudly at that, catching Legolas’s attention. Thranduil reached up and squeezed his youngest son’s shoulder, as well, though not before smothering what Elrond swore was the beginning of an indulgent grin. The pointed cues appeared to be completely lost on the young elf as he glanced between his father and the counsellor, still smiling.

Elrond waited until Legolas looked back at him before finishing the exchange with a cordial, “Beautiful, indeed, thank you.” He then addressed the delegation as a whole, gesturing towards the table. “Please, let us be seated.”

The lord’s table was the only round one in the entire hall, and purposely so. It was the one place Elrond sought to understate his position when dining with travelers, fellow Imladrians, and honored guests. Everyone there was equal. Unfortunately, in circumstances such as these, it meant he couldn’t conveniently place Thranduil at the other end of the table. Instead, he quietly offered the Elven-King the seat to his left, which — also unfortunately — was accepted.

As they made themselves comfortable, a line of servers appeared and set to work. Crystal decanters filled with Miruvor were strategically placed near the Mirkwood visitors, a courteous offer of rejuvenation after their long journey. The first course of salads and light soups was presented, with the wine stewards following at the rear. When all glasses at the table were filled, Elrond stood and held his high. At this, the entire room fell silent.

“To our esteemed guests of the Woodland Realm. May friendship and goodwill strengthen our bond from this day forward.”

The Feasting Hall erupted with cheers, everyone tipping their cups back for a healthy quaff. The moment the wine hit Elrond’s tongue, each and every one of his taste buds exploded in sheer delight. Stunned, he lowered his glass enough to meet Glorfindel’s gaze. The warrior’s eyes widened as he, too, experienced the same sensations. Unlike Elrond, however, Glorfindel instantly downed the rest of his glassful and signaled a steward for a refill.

_Ah, shit_... Elrond thought. This dinner was either going to go very smoothly, or it was going to turn very, _very_ ugly.

Taking his seat, he turned to look at Thranduil, whose expression was the very picture of smugness. “Dorwinion Red,” Elrond ventured, glancing once again at the liquid that tempted him so. It had quite literally been centuries since he’d last tasted the potent vintage. It was the only known beverage that could impair an elf’s judgment to the point of genuine inebriation. And it was only available in Mirkwood... with the Elven-King’s permission, of course.

“A gift,” Thranduil responded, holding up his glass for a private toast.

Elrond grinned, returning the gesture. “One that is very much appreciated.”

Across the table, Glorfindel’s deep voice captured his and everyone else’s attention. “So! Ringvith. What _do_ you do for fun these days?”

Elrond cringed inwardly. _Here we go_.

The austere advisor completely ignored Glorfindel, his attention focused on Erestor. This wasn’t unexpected. The two counsellors were usually locked in an intense stare-down when in each other’s presence outside of the conference chambers. It was a pure intimidation play, with both participants equally matched. That generally meant hours upon hours of glaring at each other with their proverbial hackles raised and teeth bared, like hounds vying for territorial rights.

“He is the king’s primary advisor,” Brégur answered for Ringvith. “There is no time for _fun_.”

Legolas, who until then had been silently partaking of his food, looked up at that, blinking in obvious confusion. “He plays _Stratagem_ every evening with Colthor in the rathskeller,” he corrected.

Both Brégur’s and Taros’s eyes widened, each of them surreptitiously trying to capture Legolas’s attention. Once had, Taros gave his brother the cutthroat gesture for silence, but Legolas only looked at him questioningly, mouthing, ‘What?’ The scene was so intensely comical that Elrond turned back to his wine in an effort to maintain his composure.

“ _Stratagem_?” Glorfindel said, his brows rising. “That’s a rather ambitious game, deceitful bargains and underhanded treachery all on the space of a rectangular wooden board.” The parallels between that and diplomatic negotiations were blatantly obvious.

Legolas turned to the warrior. “There is always much foul language loudly tossed about when they play. Adar wouldn’t let me anywhere near them when I was an elfling.”

Tipping his head back, Glorfindel roared with laughter. Elrond barely smothered his own mirth, hiding his smile behind the hand he casually leaned against. Imagining Thranduil’s Chief Advisor losing his vaunted cool was a most amusing visual. He glanced at Ringvith, and found the counsellor’s normally pasty complexion was tinged with embarrassment, though his eye-lock on Erestor never wavered.

“Oh, to be an insect on the wall for one of those matches,” Glorfindel said once he’d caught his breath. “Ringvith, I’m impressed. I never would have guessed you had anything resembling a life outside the council chambers.”

“Just as we cannot imagine you are capable of anything but imprudence and intimidation,” Taros offered coolly before taking a bite of his salad.

Instead of looking insulted, Glorfindel grinned wickedly. “I’ll have you know,” he began, leveling a long finger at Thranduil’s older son, “that I make the finest blackberry cobbler this side of the Misty Mountains.”

Elrond nearly choked on his soup, both from the hilarity of the incongruous statement _and_ from knowing exactly where this was headed. Swallowing quickly, he cleared his throat in warning, but the Balrog slayer completely ignored him. Before he could even open his mouth to speak, Legolas had already fallen prey to the impish plot, face lighting up with a huge smile.

“That sounds quite delicious.”

Shifting his gaze to the young prince, Glorfindel said, “I shall make some then, and bring it to our first formal meeting.”

Saelbeth immediately turned to Elrond. “I move to dismiss that proposal.”

“Seconded,” Elrond replied, “unless you allow Saelbeth to assist you in the kitchen, Glorfindel.” Without proper oversight, the warrior’s delicious creations always contained an extra _something_ , usually a concoction ‘borrowed’ from the Healing House.

Still glaring at Ringvith, Erestor offered a rare comment. “I would be more than happy to supervise.”

A soft chuckle slipped past Elrond’s lips before he could stop it. He didn’t even want to imagine what the two of them would get up to together, given their intense dislike of the Mirkwood elves.

“Should we be cautious of our food?” Thranduil asked, turning his icy gaze on Elrond.

Brégur quickly added, “That would constitute a contemptible breach of diplomatic courtesy.”

“Of course not, Your Majesty,” Elrond soothed. “’Tis simply the wine speaking, nothing more. My cooks are above reproach, I assure you. Lord Glorfindel has never unleashed one of his infamous culinary creations on anyone save his own kin here in Imladris. _And_ he never will,” he finished, tossing the good captain a stern look for emphasis.

“What does he put in them?” Legolas asked.

Elrond barely suppressed a smile as he explained, “The desserts cure a wide range of ailments, depending on his mood: sleeplessness... constipation...”

“...impotence,” Glorfindel interjected slyly before taking another gulp of wine.

At that, the entire Mirkwood delegation paused to stare at the Balrog slayer. Legolas was the only one whose expression was devoid of contempt, however. He simply shook his head, grinning. “You are very naughty.”

Glorfindel chuckled. “I’ll drink to that.” He reached in front of Erestor, who sat between them, and held his glass up. Legolas returned the gesture, and together they toasted the warrior’s cheekiness.

Questionable subject matter aside, why couldn’t all diplomatic relations be as effortless as that? Elrond marveled at the young prince’s openness and acceptance. He didn’t seem at all unhappy to be here — quite the opposite, actually, and he displayed none of the airs Elrond had come to expect from the Woodland elves. Thranduil had had only two sons at the time of the last meeting between their realms. That meant Legolas was no older than three hundred and twenty years, and no younger than ninety... for that was how long it had been since his mother, the lovely Nimeril, had perished.

Elrond tilted his head thoughtfully as he observed Thranduil’s youngest son. While the rest of his party were dressed in bold burgundies, golds, and silvers, Legolas’s formal robes were a tasteful sage with grey highlights, complemented perfectly by the delicate mithril circlet that adorned his head. His appearance was understated, welcoming. Legolas exuded cheerful confidence, lending a soft, nearly ethereal glow to his person. Add in the smile that never seemed to disappear, and the young elf was the exact polar opposite of his father and brothers, a curious observation that continued to intrigue Elrond even as he turned back to his meal.

“Your children are not in Imladris?”

Thranduil’s question pulled him from his train of thought. “No,” he answered. They would have been introduced to the visiting party had they been, of course. “Arwen is visiting her grandparents in Lórien, and the twins...” he trailed off a moment, “...they are somewhere to the west, running orc raids with the Dúnedain.”

The Elven-King’s scrutiny was sharp. “You do not approve of their pursuits.”

Elrond considered the statement thoroughly before speaking. “I do not approve of the excessive danger of their pursuits, or of the recklessness of their tactics.”

“When one is driven, fortitude often compensates for careless disregard.”

_Not always_ , Elrond responded inwardly, unwilling to put voice to the glaring instance that disproved the Elven-King’s theory. It was Thranduil’s own father who had ordered a premature strike against Mordor during the Last Alliance of Elves and Men without waiting for the Noldor’s assistance. Oropher had paid for that mistake with his life.

As though reading Elrond’s thoughts, Thranduil paused, jaw tightening visibly as he stared into his soup. He recovered quickly, though, dismissing the awkward moment by reaching for his glass and taking a deep quaff.

Skirting what would be a rather sensitive topic for both of them, Elrond asked, “How fares Brannion? Was he eager to test the throne in your absence?”

While he did not smile, Thranduil’s expression seemed to gentle a bit at the mention of his eldest son. “He was. A little too eager, I believe.”

Elrond grinned, encouraged by the reasonably peaceful interaction between them thus far. “Should we be worried?”

“I sincerely hope not.”

The wry amusement that colored Thranduil’s voice made Elrond’s smile widen. Holding his glass aloft, he said, “To noble sons,” hoping his play on the meaning of Brannion’s name would be taken for the genuine compliment that it was.

For the first time since Elrond could remember, Thranduil’s gaze carried not a hint of its usual derision or arrogance; only quiet appreciation. The Elven-King mirrored his gesture, adding, “And their noble endeavors,” before sealing the toast with a soft _clink_.

Closing his eyes, Elrond savored the heady wine, letting it swirl on his tongue before swallowing. The trail of warmth the Dorwinion left in its wake was powerfully enticing. It was probably a very good thing Thranduil kept the key to his cellars tightly guarded, else all of Mirkwood would no doubt be as relaxed at all times as he was beginning to feel at that very moment.

When at last his eyes fluttered open, Elrond found himself lost in a sea of blue. Legolas was peering at him from across the table with what could only be described as undisguised astonishment — almost as though the young elf hadn’t known he was sitting there at all. Arching a curious brow, Elrond grinned at Legolas, inclining his head respectfully. That seemed to break whatever spell had befallen the prince. Legolas lowered his gaze, even as a smile touched his own lips. Moments later, he glanced back up at him, his expression filled with such wonder and tenderness that Elrond suddenly found it difficult to breathe.

_Ah, the torment of a lonely heart, brought to the fore by an exceptionally persuasive beverage_ , he thought sadly, looking down at the wine in his glass. He swished it around, absently studying its color. Legolas couldn’t possibly be intimating any kind of interest in one as old as he, not that he could have _or_ would have responded in kind. It was merely the wine doing its job, allowing Elrond to see things that weren’t really there.

Deliberately setting the glass aside, Elrond tucked back into his meal, listening to the rather heated, and thoroughly inane, debate on elvish braid styles taking place between Glorfindel and Brégur. A quick glance in Saelbeth’s direction confirmed his worst fears. The counsellor held up five fingers, indicating how many glasses of Dorwinion Glorfindel had already consumed.

_Eru help us all_ , Elrond pleaded silently.

The entire Feasting Hall was abruptly silenced by the sound of a knife being tapped against someone’s plate. One of Imladris’s guard members — Sulvaethor, if he was placing the face correctly — stood and faced the lord’s table. Elrond sat back, curiosity mingling with amusement.

“My Lord Elrond,” the dark-haired elf began, offering a respectful bow. “In light of our esteemed guests’ visit, I propose a bit of entertainment for them on their day of rest tomorrow.”

Intrigued, Elrond gestured for him to continue. “What have you in mind?”

“War games, my lord.”

Behind the warrior, his fellow guardsmen cheered, stomping their feet. Mirkwood’s own guard members, situated not far away from them, joined in the ruckus, pounding the table with their fists. The air of enthusiasm quickly spread until everyone in the hall was clapping.

Smiling, Sulvaethor held up his hands to quiet the fray. “Who will challenge this swordsman?” he called. Warriors from both realms stood, proudly holding their fists high. At the lord’s table, Taros made a deliberate show of scooting his chair back and standing. He gazed coldly at Sulvaethor, slowly raising his own fist. If the elder prince was anywhere near as good a swordsman as his father, the whole lot of them were in for the match of their lives.

Sulvaethor acknowledged Prince Taros’s inclusion with a smile and another bow. “With your permission, Lord Elrond, we will hold multiple rounds, with the winner of each to advance to the next stage.”

Glorfindel stood then, finishing off the rest of his glassful before announcing, “Whoever is left standing at the end will face me in the final match!”

The moment those words slipped past Glorfindel’s lips, Thranduil calmly set down his spoon and stood, the hall falling silent as he did so. “I believe I would enjoy participating in this challenge,” he said, glaring openly at the Balrog slayer.

Glorfindel’s grin turned devious as he looked at the Elven-King. “I very much look forward to that.”

As the room erupted in excited cheers, Elrond sighed, reaching for his wine again. The deep swallow he took did little to smooth the rough prickles of anxiety that had begun to churn in his gut. A battle of swords on the field could so easily translate into a battle of wills for this congress as a whole, and that didn’t even take into account the two warriors’ contentious relationship outside of the diplomatic arena.

His worrisome speculation was cut short when Sulvaethor stepped back into his line of view. “My lord?”

“Permission is granted, of course.” What else could he say? “The games will commence after midday meal tomorrow. That should,” he emphasized, glancing around his table, “allow everyone ample time to recover from this evening’s festivities.”

Applause filled the air as the warriors all took their seats, but moments later another member of Imladris’s guard stood. He was shorter than most of his fellow guardsmen, and more slightly built, but he carried himself with the same level of confidence. Elrond recognized him immediately, having awarded the elf more commendations over the centuries than almost anyone else, save for Glorfindel himself. Thalagu, he noted silently, was a force to be reckoned with on any battlefield.

“We cannot have war games without the archers!” Thalagu announced, exciting the crowd once more. “The swordsmen have put voice to their challenges; now, who will brave my bow?”

Groans issued from the Imladrian ranks, one warrior even daring to toss a half-eaten hunk of bread at the elf. Elrond chuckled quietly at the proceedings, fully understanding why no one wanted to answer that particular summons to contest. Thalagu had put archers in both Imladris _and_ Lothlórien to shame with his expertise, earning an unprecedented reputation. He was a bit mystified over the silence that enveloped the table where the Mirkwood guards were seated, though. Indeed, the visiting contingent sat quietly, most of them sporting equally mystifying smirks. Thranduil’s archers were known to be exceptionally skilled. Surely one of them was willing to match a single Imladrian? The answer to that silent question, when finally presented, caused Elrond to blink in surprise.

Legolas turned in his chair, glancing about the hall before stating, “I would take that challenge, sir.”

The ovation the prince’s words drew from the Mirkwood warriors was deafening, each and every one of them standing as they cheered. Even their diplomatic corps seemed pleased, right down to Thranduil himself, who allowed the barest hint of a smile to linger on his features for all to see.

“Ah, prince of Mirkwood,” Thalagu said, bowing, “’tis an honor to accept your challenge.”

Legolas Thranduilion was an archer. Elrond should have guessed as much. No son of the Elven-King would be caught in the field without proper weapons training, and Legolas didn’t strike him as one to wield a cumbersome long sword. Where Thranduil’s elder sons were all bulk and brawn, Legolas was lithe and graceful. That was by no means a disadvantage, however. Some of the most dangerous warriors Elrond had ever known had been small, nimble, and very, very fast, with the sharpest of eyesight and deadliest of aim.

“ _Ringvith_!”

The loud whisper distracted Elrond momentarily, but once he identified its source, he turned back to Thalagu, who waited patiently for an acknowledgement. “I shall leave all arrangements in your and Sulvaethor’s capable hands,” he told the archer.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Oh, Ringvith!” Glorfindel called sweetly. He was leaning forward over his meal, trying to capture the Mirkwood counsellor’s attention. “You know you want to fight me.”

Ringvith, of course, was still ignoring everyone save Erestor.

“He does not fight with weapons,” Brégur stated coolly.

Glorfindel’s brows rose. “Really?” He seemed ready to back down, even starting to pull away, but then his smile suddenly widened. “All right. One hand tied behind my back!”

Elrond rubbed at his eyes, hoping his amusement wasn’t too noticeable with Glorfindel’s antics on display. The night was young, and they had yet to entertain the Mirkwood elves in the Hall of Fire after dinner. At this rate, the warrior was either going to embarrass them beyond all repair or fall asleep on someone’s shoulder, mid-insult.

“Riiiiiiingvith!”

Biting back a smile, Elrond signaled one of the stewards. It was time to move this dinner along to the next course.

Quickly.

~ * ~ * ~

A gentle smile graced Elrond’s face as he made his way through the Homely House. He felt wonderful. Better than wonderful, actually, though the part of his mind that was not currently buzzing with warmth and comfort understood quite well that the Dorwinion wine was entirely to blame.

Fortunately, the evening’s entertainment had concluded without any regrettable incidents... save for the rather off-key rendition of Lúthien’s Love Duet sung by Glorfindel and Lindir. The disapproving scowls worn by the Mirkwood elves had quickly turned to barely suppressed grins when Imladris’s guardsmen had begun howling like hounds in response. Glorfindel had excused himself shortly thereafter, stating that he was taking his superior talent elsewhere, where it would be fully appreciated. Elrond, however, had a fairly good idea what the good captain had _really_ been up to after sneaking away.

The door to his study opened soundlessly at his touch, and inside he found a large fire roaring in the hearth and one thoroughly pickled Balrog slayer perched in one of their usual cushioned chairs. Glorfindel looked quite comfortable, all slouched sideways with one of his long legs hanging unapologetically over the armrest. Elrond’s keen gaze didn’t miss that the elegant glass from dinner had been replaced with a large dwarven mug and the bottles of wine sitting on the end table — all five of them, with one already opened — were clearly not of a local vintage.

Glorfindel smiled wickedly at him, loudly whispering, “ _I found the cache_!”

“I was rather confident you would.”

“The storage room to the left of the main kitchens,” Glorfindel explained. “There were guards posted.”

Elrond settled himself in the other chair, stretching his legs out. “Good thing you have friends amongst the guards.”

“I poured some for you. It’s been breathing for some time now.”

He glanced at the table, noting the second mug. Picking it up, he peered inside, only to find it mostly empty. When he quirked an eyebrow in Glorfindel’s direction, the warrior stared back defiantly.

“What? I had to test it, of course... to be sure it was fit for my lord’s consumption.”

“And yet your serving came from the same bottle,” Elrond observed, trying — and failing miserably — to act affronted.

“Someone could have placed poison along the rim of that mug. I was duty-bound to eliminate all potential threats.”

Chuckling, Elrond reached for the open bottle. “I presume all is safe for me to partake of this now?”

“Indeed,” Glorfindel said, grinning.

Behind them, the door to the study opened again, admitting Erestor. The counsellor headed straight for the wine bottles, grabbing one of the unopened ones and secreting it away within the folds of his dark robes.

Glorfindel glanced up at the intrusion. “Ah, Erestor! You’re just in time.”

Erestor gazed at him stoically. “Dare I ask?”

“We were just about to start the debate on whether Ringvith actually has a penis, or whether he sits down to relieve himself.”

Elrond really shouldn’t have laughed at that. It was insensitive and disrespectful. Unfortunately, his wine-addled funny bone was thoroughly tickled by the matter-of-fact statement, as well as Erestor’s complete lack of reaction. He wound up setting his mug back down to avoid spilling his drink.

“Perhaps you’d care to volunteer for that bit of research?” Glorfindel asked, gazing earnestly at the counsellor.

Taking a second bottle off the table, Erestor said, “I need not subject myself to this abuse,” before turning to leave.

“Oh, come now! You two were made for each other!”

Erestor slammed the door so hard behind him that all the various trinkets resting on the bookshelves rattled precariously.

When he’d finally caught his breath again, Elrond glanced at his companion. “Congratulations, Fin. You’ve managed to incense both sides of this upcoming conference. How am I ever to keep the peace?”

“Keep serving the wine. There’s plenty of it.”

Elrond arched a brow.

“I didn’t pilfer _that_ many bottles,” Glorfindel defended.

“How many _did_ you pilfer?”

The warrior paused, his gaze flitting about the room as he pretended to count silently. “Enough,” he finally stated.

Still chuckling, Elrond shook his head. “We’re both going to feel this come tomorrow.”

“Do you not have a concoction of some sort to counter the aftereffects?”

“Somewhere,” Elrond affirmed, deliberately being vague. “I’m not quite sure I remember which one it is.”

Glorfindel glared at him. “Well, you’d best start searching now if I’m to have any success in humbling that bloody Sinda at the games.”

“Just kiss him. He’ll never see it coming.”

“Are you daring me?”

“You’ve pulled that one on all of Imladris’s guardsmen during drills, me included. You need not make it personal...”

Glorfindel pursed his lips. “Hmmm.”

“...unless you want to,” Elrond added slyly, grinning as he picked his mug up.

“Oh, stop!”

“Thranduil was watching you all night,” he teased, “a singular glint in his eyes. He wants you; I’m sure of it.”

Glorfindel’s expression morphed at that, annoyance smoothing away until a look of pure mischief remained. It was the very last thing Elrond had expected to see. Curious, he tilted his head in question.

“Speaking of watching...” Glorfindel began, his smile broadening. “Young Prince Legolas seemed particularly enthralled with you, my lord.”

So, he hadn’t been imagining things...

Elrond sobered instantly, turning to watch the fire lick at the crumbling logs of hickory. He took a sip of his wine, and then another, stalling. When he glanced back at the warrior, Glorfindel’s grin was still intact, his gaze remarkably keen for one so deep into his cups.

“’Twas nothing,” Elrond finally said.

“Wargshit. I know interest when I see it, though his was so excruciatingly innocent that I cannot help but believe young Legolas is absolutely... positively... _pure_.”

“Such speculation is discourteous.”

“And yet you laugh over Ringvith’s penis — or lack thereof,” Glorfindel retorted.

“Respected advisor or not, Ringvith is an arse. Legolas is a prince.”

“ _A very beautiful one_.”

Glorfindel’s whisper sizzled along his spine, pooling in places that were entirely inappropriate for this discussion. “That is beside the point.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

The warrior set down his cup and slid off the chair, crossing the few paces between them on his knees. Placing large hands on either side of him on the seat cushion, Glorfindel leaned in until they were a mere hand span apart. Intrigued, Elrond gazed intently at his companion, noting that the mood had definitely shifted. The teasing smile was all but gone from Glorfindel’s face.

“You have been alone for a very long time.”

The words made Elrond’s heart lurch in anguish. “I have,” he acknowledged, his voice barely above a whisper.

Glorfindel’s blue eyes sparkled. “Imagine holding one so young and eager in your arms... learning him just as he himself learns at the hands of one with more than _six millennia_ of experience...”

Elrond tried to curb the provocative discussion by placing a finger against his friend’s lips, but Glorfindel wouldn’t be dissuaded. Bypassing the dutiful digit, he continued his enticement. “Can you imagine the wonder in his voice, meldir, as he is touched in places he didn’t even know existed?”

Cursing the wine for loosening inhibitions, Elrond fought against a powerful rush of arousal. Yes, he was lonely. Yes, Prince Legolas was beautiful. But any thoughts of a liaison between them were unthinkable — laughable, really, given whose son he was. And then there was Elrond’s dear wife, who was ever in his thoughts...

This time, when Glorfindel’s lips parted to speak again, Elrond silenced him with his entire hand, murmuring, “This will never happen.”

The warrior conceded for long moments, remaining quiet, but his gaze was sharp and true. At last, Elrond felt the beginnings of a smile beneath his palm. He waited until Glorfindel playfully nipped at him before removing his hand. This, Elrond could handle... _had_ handled many times over the past several centuries. It was a familiar air, impish and friendly, despite his repeated refusals.

Glorfindel leaned in closer until their noses nearly touched. “My bed is always open.”

Grinning, Elrond patted the other’s cheek. “All of Imladris knows this, my friend.”

The warrior’s gaze slid down to his lips. “ _I would take great pleasure in offering comfort to my lord_ ,” he whispered, inching closer.

Elrond grasped Glorfidnel’s shoulders, effectively stopping his progress. “I’ve no desire to be ridden hard and put away wet.”

Laughter rumbled in the Balrog slayer’s chest. “You’ve no idea what you’re missing.”

“Be that as it may,” Elrond offered, smoothing his words with a gentle squeeze, “I graciously decline your offer, thoughtful though it is.”

Glorfindel sat back on his heels. “Well, now I’m all kindled. Whatever am I to do?”

Elrond considered the question a moment. “You could apologize to Erestor. He might be warm and willing, especially with a little wine in his system.”

“Now there’s an idea whose time has come!”

The warrior stood, grabbing one of the unopened flagons and uncorking it. Elrond watched, both fascinated and highly amused, as his friend guzzled nearly half the bottle before resealing it. Glorfindel then tucked it under his arm and turned back to him.

“I’m off, then. Don’t wait up for me,” he finished with a wink.

Chuckling, Elrond watched his friend leave, a somewhat unsteady bounce to his step. He was betting the Balrog slayer would be asleep the moment he sank onto the bed — whoever’s it might be. At this rate, he wasn’t certain Glorfindel would even find the right room.

As silence permeated the study once more, Elrond’s thoughts began to sink into those dark, barely tolerable areas of his mind — the ones he could hardly contain under normal circumstances. Without his usual iron-tight control, they were absolutely unavoidable. Loneliness. Loss. So much loss... The ache and emptiness were nearly debilitating.

“ _I cannot go there_ ,” he whispered, knowing the pain would be too much to bear.

Reaching for the opened bottle of Dorwinion, he did the only thing he could think of: he drank. Swallow after swallow went down, with him pausing only to catch his breath. When that bottle was done, he opened another and kept going. By the time his vision started spinning in earnest, there were tears bathing his cheeks... tears no one could have possibly guessed would fall from the eyes of one so wise and mighty.

How little they all knew.

Dropping the second empty bottle, Elrond made a half-hearted attempt to get up, but only succeeded in leaning awkwardly against the side of the chair. His main chambers were just through that door to the left.

He blinked, confused. Where had the door gone? It should have been right there...

He tripped on his own feet when he let go of the chair, falling with a resounding thud. There was no pain, though, and for some reason, Elrond found that extremely humorous. Giggling, he crawled to the nearest wall and tried using the tapestry he found there to pull himself up, but it wound up falling on him instead. The material felt so warm and plush beneath his fingers that he bunched it up as best he could, barely setting his head to rest upon it before he slipped into blessed unconsciousness.

~ * ~ * ~

Elsewhere in the Homely House, the youngest prince of Mirkwood padded barefoot onto his balcony, tying his robe against the cool breeze that eagerly played with his hair. A smile touched his lips as he gazed over the moonlit valley. Crossing to one of the large columns that scaled all three storeys of the lord’s home, he leaned against it.

“ _My Lord Elrond_ ,” he whispered, testing the words on his tongue like a cherished prayer. He looked up to the millions of twinkling stars then, his smile brightening.

“ _And he glows_...”

~ * ~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations:**  
>  meldir = friend  
> yrch = orcs  
> Suilad, i vrannon nín = Greetings, my lord  
> Adar = father
> 
> **What’s In a Name (Original Characters):**  
>  Taros (Thranduil’s son), means _forest whisper_  
>  Brannion (Thranduil’s eldest son), means _noble son_  
>  Nimeril (Thranduil’s late wife), means _white rose_  
>  Ringvith (Mirkwood advisor), means _cold mist_  
>  Brégur (Mirkwood advisor), means _wild fire_  
>  Colthor (Mirkwood resident), means _golden-red eagle_  
>  Sulvaethor (Imladris warrior), means _wind warrior_  
>  Thalagu (Imladris archer), means _steady bow_

**Author's Note:**

>  **Translations** :  
> Arda = the world  
> Anor = the sun  
> Sinda = singular of Sindar, a race of Elves of Telerin descent  
> Elda/Eldar = Elf/Elves  
> meldir = friend  
> ellon = male elf  
> “ _Nathlo na Imladris, Thranduil Oropherion_ ” = “Welcome to Imladris, Thranduil, son of Oropher”  
> Miruvor = a cordial with the power to grant renewed vigor and strength


End file.
